Black Coffee
by Kathryn Anne
Summary: Tea and sympathy, and something else. Post-series. Chapter 4 and a re-written Chapter 3 up!
1. On The Doorstep

**Black Coffee**

**Part One:  On the Doorstep**

**Summary: A visit. Post-series.**

**Rating: PG-13**

**A/N: "Betcha can't write a Miho/Amon scene, Kate." "Oh, I can too!" "That doesn't count." I'm not sure if I won or lost that internal argument. This takes place in the Psychometric Musings universe. Call it an outtake.**

He showed up on my doorstep a few days ago. No call, no email – he just rang the bell, and when I answered, there he was. Talk, dark, mysterious. Sexy as hell. What would _you_ do?

  
I asked him in for tea.

  
Yes, I know, he doesn't drink tea. Neither do I, truth be told. But it makes for a soothing ritual, and I wasn't sure I could handle myself if we just slipped back into our old black-coffee routine. At the least, tea-making takes up some time, and encourages a little light conversation. Tea is the appropriate offering for a coworker-cum-casual-friend that I hadn't seen for more than a year. Coffee is for more intimate relationships; for two tired, disillusioned people seeking solace in each other's company. For those fighting on the same side of an undeclared war. For comrades. 

  
Coffee is for lovers.

  
So we sat in my rarely-used living room, sipping mediocre tea (I never claimed to be a hostess) and exchanging pleasantries. He had come back to Japan to do some recon work with his brother. Robin was fine, but it was too dangerous for her to come with him. She was in Europe, under Juliano's care. The STN-J had reestablished a routine of sorts; two new Hunters had recently arrived from HQ. Doujima had actually developed a work ethic. The "senior" members were increasingly involved in Nagira's clandestine resistance movement, especially Michael. We only Hunted Witches who flagrantly misused their powers…

  
And all of a sudden, his mouth was on mine, and his hands were roaming all over me, and I knew this had heartbreak written all over it, because a man like him simply does not show up on a girl's front porch for no reason. Especially not a woman like me. Amon never did anything (or anyone? Scratch that thought) without a reason. I had a pretty good idea what this reason might be. I had seen it in his eyes when he mentioned that woman-child, Robin Sena, the Witches' Eve. His Hope, and mine. I heard it in his voice, when he said her name, and I knew he was seeking, not comfort, not companionship, but simple oblivion.

  
So, did I push him away? Detach myself gently, and seek to draw him out with gentle hands and silent sympathy? Break out the Scotch, let him drink himself unconscious, then call Nagira to come pick him up? Put my hard-won knowledge of human nature to actual use, and let this terribly complex, terribly conflicted man talk about his love for a seventeen-year-old girl?

  
We melded together, my hands as impatient and fumbling as his. I could feel the desperation pouring off him, in waves. His hands left bruises on my upper arms, as I tried to crawl inside his skin.

  
I saw his lips shape her name, as he came.

  
Afterwards I slipped out of bed, made myself some coffee, and sat on the couch, wondering what the hell I was going to do.


	2. Morning Song

**Black Coffee**

**Part Two: Morning Song**

**Summary: "Human voices wake us, and we drown."**

**Rating: PG-13**

**A/N: I've never written dialogue. I've never written Karasuma from outside her head. I've never even tried to get inside Amon's head. I rarely write third person. In other words, I need your help with this! **

  
He was used to waking up in strange beds. All those hotel rooms, night after night – hell, it wasn't as if he slept much, anyway. None of those hotel rooms, however, had white all-cotton sheets and a bonsai on the windowsill. None of them had a rosary half- hidden among the litter of cell phone, alarm clock, water glass on the nightstand. None of them smelled, ever so faintly, of sandalwood. And coffee.

  
The bedside clock read four-thirty, but she was already up. The sheets on her side of the bed had been smoothed out, her pillow placed precisely, and the beige coverlet neatened. How very like her. 

  
She was sitting on the sofa when he entered her tiny living room. Amon paused a moment to observe his former coworker and present ally, the almost-friend whom he had used, last night, as means to oblivion. She was so like and yet unlike Robin … No. He was _not_ going to go down that road. If he was going to burn … let it not be for this.

  
She had paused to put on a robe – ankle-length, in light blue cotton. Her eyes were unfocused, almost dazed, and her hair was tousled. He remembered sliding his fingers through it, pausing to inhale the scent of her shampoo. Both feet – long and narrow, with unpainted toenails – were on the couch, and those all-too-perceptive hands of hers were wrapped firmly around a mug of coffee.

  
Why had he done it? Amon had always respected Karasuma; she was level-headed, intelligent, and a very capable Hunter. They shared the same ability to submerge themselves in Hunting. Did she share his former motivations? Before last night, he might have tried to find out – for safety's sake. Now, he knew he would not.

  
No more than a breath of time later, she turned to look at him. She had always had that talent: a nearly uncanny ability to sense another's presence. He had often found it useful in the past.

  
"There's coffee …" She gestured awkwardly toward the kitchen, obviously uneasy. Wordlessly, he found a mug and filled it. He crossed the room again and sat down next to her. Not too near. Her shoulders straightened a bit, as if she were slipping her mask back on. Oddly, he wanted to stop that, to keep her here. With him. Dangerous ground.

  
Any sentence would do, but the first thing that came out of his mouth was, "Did you scry me last night?"

  
Obviously, she had not expected that, but her face remained composed. "No. I thought … you wouldn't appreciate it." A pause. "And I never do, during …" Deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on his face. "I didn't want to know – who you were thinking about."

  
Well, that was to be expected. Karasuma had always expressed her thoughts rather than her emotions. Last night, he had seen her observing him, storing data, while her hands were roaming his body. Sex brought him oblivion; it seemed that it only gave her more food for thought, for the mental picture of him that he knew she was building. Amon wondered where the pieces of him she had gathered last night fit. 

  
"Is she all right?" Damn the woman, she saw too much. And he couldn't lie to her. After using her like he had, she deserved honesty from him, at the very least.

  
"Yes." The words came more quickly, almost against his will. "Juliano cares for her. He believes in her; he will protect her."

  
"We all care for her. And Amon …" Karasuma's eyes were very clear, and she had moved closer to him. "Robin trusts you. She believes in you." Another pause. "So do I."

  
Almost against his will, his hand came up to brush her cheekbone. "Arigato, Karasuma." 

  
Her laugh was a bit shaky. "Miho."


	3. Kiss And Tell

**Black Coffee  
****Part Three: Kiss and Tell**

**Summary: Sensory memories  
****Rating: PG-13 for adult situations.  
****A/N: The closest Karasuma will ever get to Carrie Bradshaw.  
****For everyone who's been there for me this summer.**

So, you want to know what it was like? Of course you do, it's not every woman who to gets to sleep with Tall, Dark, and Broodingly Beautiful – and we few lucky ones are expected to do our part, to "tell all" to a group of girlfriends so that the whole myth can live on. It's how romance novelists have made their living for years. Living vicariously, wish-fulfilment – in fact, we should be gossiping about this over sassy cocktails at a trendy singles bar, a la _Sex and the City_.

And I have to admit, the ... call them sensory memories ... do give me the shivers. I should have known it; that man is too good at what he does to be careless in bed. When he takes all the energy usually focused on surveillance, data processing and risk analysis – all the things he does almost automatically, when he's working – and _focuses_ it, the results are almost frighteningly intense.

Sex with Amon was something decidedly low on finesse and high in ... well, urgency. Actually, we were groping and fumbling like a pair of kids in the backseat of a car, all the way to the bedroom. I've never been grateful for the small size of my apartment before; it was no more than six steps from the couch to the bed, and I swear to God, Amon crossed the distance in two. I'm not sure if he was carrying me or simply dragging me, but I don't remember my feet touching the ground more than once or twice. Not that I gave a damn by then.

Anyhow, I think I closed my eyes at some point, so it took me a while to realize something rather odd was going on. (Remember, I was ... rather distracted, as well.)

He seemed to be on autopilot. Well, not that exactly – but when he looked at me, I wasn't sure what he was seeing. His hands and mouth were urgent, almost fumbling (in fact, I was wearing turtlenecks to the office for a week) but his eyes had this odd look to them. A little bleak, a little reckless, with a hint of despair under their flint-hard surface. He wasn't the kind of man who softened during sex.

I know. Right now, you're wondering, "What the hell is wrong with this woman? She's wasting time thinking about _motivations_?" I suppose you do have a point – but remember, this is what I do. What I've done all my life. I'm not just psychic, I'm a Hunter – and that means keeping a part of me detached at all times, observing the people around me and storing that knowledge away. And I can't block my Craft entirely; it's always there. It's like part of me is an emotional radio, always set to 'receive.' I can turn down the volume, but the underlying data stream is always there.

I could feel the desperation in Amon's touch. It was like a signal, a light flashing behind my eyes, and I knew that I was more of a means to an end, than a lover. A lightning rod, a ground wire – a way of taking an unbearable emotion, and directing it away from a vulnerable area.

I suppose it was a compliment of sorts, that Amon trusted me with this. He knows me better than anyone alive, he must have known that I would figure it out. That I would know that my hands, mouth, body were a sort of surrogate for what he really wanted. He also knew ... that I would figure out who it was, that he was imagining. Who it was that he saw, when he looked into my eyes.

Is it any wonder that I'm sitting in this goddamn bar, drinking Irish coffee and trying my hardest _not_ to think about it?


	4. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

**Black Coffee  
Part Four: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes**

**Summary: The obligatory bar scene.  
****Rating: PG-13**

**A/N: This piece requires a willing suspension of disbelief: imagine there's a bar in Tokyo – one of the seedier ones – where the bartender's from Brooklyn. No, really, work with me. An Army brat, some guy who moved there to be with his girlfriend, whatever, I don't know the backstory. I'm not the one in charge here.**

**The entire PM/BC sequence (maybe I should just call it "Miho's Side of the Story"?) is still in a state of flux. Pieces will be added, revised, etc.**

So, a man and a woman walk into a bar.

No, I don't mean a _couple_. When ya see a couple, nine times out of ten you can tell. Not like anythin' physical, but it's the looks on their faces, the way the walk ... a kind of awareness of each other. These two didn't have that vibe going. I wouldn't say they were strangers, exactly – but they didn't have that **thing** between them, ya know? That thing that makes the air crackle.

Not to say they were perfectly at ease. The man, especially, walked on his toes. You ever seen the way boxers move, even when they're out of the ring? Up on their toes, like. What's the word – oh yeah, _poised_. You can sometimes tell a cop by that walk, but this guy was no cop. Even cops go off duty. This guy? Tense-like and watchful, 24-7. Plus, no cop wears all black and a trenchcoat, like someone from a Matrix movie. Kids who do that are mostly skinny Goths. He was the real thing. Not someone I'd want pissed at me, if you know what I mean.

The woman with him was a bit of an oddball, too. Oh, she looked all right – red hair, big blue eyes and these legs that just went on forever – but she was wearing another of those damn trenchcoats and a power suit. And she had this air to her, like those chicks you used to see downtown on weekdays, headed down to Wall Street. Cool and calm, ice water runnin' in those veins. Matter-of-fact and practical. Those big eyes were taking in everything, filing it away for future reference. Like I said, not the kind of woman I saw much of, in Japan anyways.

Anyway. They sit down at the bar, and order coffee. Nothing else, just coffee – and what're they here for, if they just want to sit and sip java like a couple of college kids? This ain't that kinda joint, we mainly lean towards the late-night heavy drinkers. Depressed businessmen, the high-end hookers, guys and the women they cheat on their wives with. Class ain't our strong point, see? If you plan on going home sober and alone, you'd be better off elsewhere.

Well, I drift off to tend to someone else – they sure as hell don't look like big tippers, and there's a drunk pouring out his woes at the other end of the bar, listening to that type is always worth your while – and next time I glance over, they're still sitting there. He's smoking and brooding like nobody's business, looking like he just stepped out of some foreign film. Just then he looks up, and makes this little motion with the hand that isn't holding the cigarette, and I gotta say, maybe he does belong here. Because that look says he's been in joints like this a million times before. I head over there, leaving Mr. Twelve Steps to talk to the empty glasses, he's drunk, he ain't gonna notice and I know a command when I see one.

"Scotch." He don't waste words, not this one. I'm turning around when the woman pipes up.

"Two." Brooding Guy looks down at her, for a minute his eyes kinda soften, and she touches the back of his hand, reassuring-like. Maybe this one's human after all. "And more coffee, please."

Have I mentioned this chick's got a voice straight outta a forties nightclub? Low, almost sultry, and warm. Not clipped, like a career woman. His is, of course – dead-sounding, and I'm wondering who the **hell** these two are. Like it or not, I don't get to wonder long.

Because the just then, the door opens, and in walks – no, _swaggers_ – Synji Nagira. Or Nagira Synji, whatever, I never said I understood this damn country, I just work here. How do I know him? What kinda stupid-ass question is that? Every bar in this part of Tokyo knows that guy. Probably every strip club and pachinko parlor too. If you're gonna be an asshole lawyer, you might as well be like this guy – he does it right. The pimp coat, the Ferrari – he's like a cross between James Bond and Puff Daddy, with a law degree thrown in there.

And behind him, is the kicker. Now, like I've said, Nagira's no stranger to women – every time I see him, he's with another one, and I see him a _lot_. I ain't never seen him with this type of girl, though In fact, I don't think I've seen anything like this girl ... well, since my days in Brooklyn.

For starters, she's another redhead. Strawberry blonde, you'd call it, if you were bein' picky. She can't be more then sixteen or seventeen – if she weren't with this crowd, I'd walk her right out that door myself – and the way that hair of hers falls in her face, she looks even younger. And remember how I said that other woman, the one in the suit, had big eyes. She's got nothing on this girl. Eyes big and green like nothing I've seen before, and with this **look** in them, like my kid sister taking her First Communion.

She's a little bit of a thing, too – no more than five four, and the trenchcoat she's wearing looks like it belongs to someone else. Underneath, she's wearing black pants and a turtleneck, and she's so thin I wonder if I could snap her in half. Willowy, like a kid that suddenly shoots up and suddenly his wrists are four inches outside his shirt cuffs, but he still weighs the same. Her face is kinda wistful, kinda delicate, but that look in her eyes ... it's like a candle flame, still and pure and _intense_.

And that's when I realize that I'll be workin' late tonight. _Real_ late.


End file.
